The Importance of Bulldogs: A Novel

The Importance of Bulldogs

Ellen Davidson Levine

Copyright © 2010 by Ellen Davidson Levine

Published by Terroir Ink at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by A-Vibe Web Development (http://avibeweb.com)

Cover photo by Rick Levine © 2010

Author photo by Prechtel Photo

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request

ISBN-978-0-9844839-4-5

In Memory of Max

A Terroir Ink First Edition

The Importance of Bulldogs

Copyright © 2010 by Ellen Davidson Levine

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

Cover design by A-Vibe Web Development (http://avibeweb.com)

Cover photo by Rick Levine © 2010

Author photo by Prechtel Photo

Library of Congress Catologing-in-Publication Data is available upon request

ISBN-13 9844839-2-1

ISBN-10 0-9844839-2-6

Acknowledgements

My gratitude to those who read and commented on the several drafts of this novel, and to my writers group for adopting Ruby Doobie. Thanks to friends and family for your love and encouragement. Thanks to Rick, for everything.

For all the edits, encouragement and wisdom, special thanks to the Frogs. I am also grateful for the support and patience of friends and family and my office mates, Bella and Jack.

Chapter One

I was speeding down Seven Hills Road in my rickety VW Golf on my way to commit suicide.

Since early morning I’d been on the verge of doing something desperate. For hours, I'd aimlessly traveled the back roads of the Willamette Valley, going nowhere. I had nowhere to go. Forty-five years old and I had no home, no job, no one who cared if I lived or died. All I had was a decrepit car with an almost-empty gas tank and a suitcase-full of dirty laundry on the back seat.

The Golf crested the seventh hill of Seven Hills Road. It was dusk. I switched on the headlights. In front of me, the steep road dropped to the valley floor like a terrifying rollercoaster ride. With no protective barrier along the edge, the narrow road left no room for bad driving. Perfect.

I pressed my foot on the accelerator, flirting with the idea of death. The car lurched forward and the speedometer needle twitched nervously as the car picked up speed. 65, 70, 72, 75. At 80 mph, the car started to shimmy and shake like a giant vibrator. My body throbbed with anticipation. I was breathing hard. One turn of the steering wheel would take me over the edge to a fiery climax at the bottom of the ravine. The ultimate orgasm. A sexy way to go.

Midway down the hill, the headlights lit up a blurry bulk, where the road flattened out. Shit. A deer maybe, or a cow. I stomped on the brakes. The car swerved. It fishtailed right, left, right, but didn’t slow. Tires shrieking like banshees, the Golf hurtled down the road. The shape took form. A person. Ohmygodaperson. I knew the car couldn’t stop in time.

With my last strength, I jerked the steering wheel. This wasn’t a game of tempting fate anymore. This was real. I squeezed my eyes shut. Either I was going to kill someone or I was going to go off the cliff and crash and die and I didn’t want to look. I went limp with regret and guilt and dread and other emotions I couldn’t begin to name.

The sharp stink of burning rubber bit my nose like smelling salts. My head snapped up. My eyes fluttered open. I felt a knifing pain in the place where my neck met my right shoulder. As I reached to massage the tender spot, I became aware of the absence of sound. The Golf was quiet and still. The car had stalled and come to a stop at the bottom of the road, on a large dirt pullout. Several feet away, a plump, middle-aged woman stood in the middle of the road. She had a broad grin on her face. I turned the ignition off and gingerly got out of the car, ignoring the twinge of pain in my neck.

What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you crazy or something? I slammed the car door shut, adding an exclamation point to my angry words. You could’ve been killed.

You’re an angel, the woman said, keeping her smile and ignoring my tirade. I was so scared I’d be out here all night. And then you came along.

Her words made me regret my rage. I offered an apologetic smile. Are you all right?

Yes. I am now. You?

I think so. My tongue stumbled on the words as if they were pebbles.

Her face brightened with another smile. I’m MaryLou Hunter, she said, offering her hand. She was overweight and short, about my height, and several years my senior, in her early or mid-fifties. Her pale face was framed by frizzy brown hair. Her eyes were the color of dark chocolate.

Ruby. Ruby Dubin. I shook her hand.

Ruby, you’re an answer to my prayers. She gestured at the white van standing in the left lane about twenty feet down the road. It won’t start. I don’t know what to do.

The sky had gone completely dark. The moon and stars were hidden behind a layer of storm clouds. I had to walk closer to see that the Honda mini-van was slumped on the rim of the right tire. The van was scraped and banged up on that side, with the door pushed in and the side window nothing but shards of glass. The headlamp on the passenger side was also shattered, the windshield had a web of cracks and there were dents and scrapes across the front of the van too.

There were some rocks lying in the road. MaryLou’s voice came from behind me. It was like they attacked me.

I glanced around. I didn’t see any rocks nearby and the damage seemed worse than what a couple of rocks would inflict, unless they were boulders. Mentally, I shrugged. I had bigger worries. My near-death experience hadn’t fixed any of my problems. I wasn’t sure yet if I was relieved to be alive or sorry not to have ended it all. Until I figured out the answer, I’d just keep doing the next thing to do. I guess we’d better move the van out of the road, I said, turning to look at MaryLou.

You’re right. I didn’t even think of that. MaryLou stepped forward and wrapped me in her arms. See? It’s just cosmic that you showed up.

We walked around the van to the driver’s side. MaryLou opened the door. There was glass on the passenger seat but the driver’s side was okay. She got behind the wheel and turned the ignition. Immediately, a deafening banging and clanging filled the air, the clatter of metal on metal. I muffled my ears with my hands, my heart thumping madly.

Shut it off, I yelled.

MaryLou nodded and kept her hands over her ears.

I screamed. Off.

Again, she nodded and her ears stayed covered.

I sighed. My neck ached and I felt suddenly tired and empty. All I wanted was a place to lie down. Instead, I was standing in the middle of the road with this nice but totally airhead woman, both of us in danger of permanent hearing loss. I reached across and turned the ignition key to off, silencing the deafening noise.

Oh, Ruby, thank you. MaryLou lowered her arms and gave me a wide smile. I don’t know why I didn’t do that. I stood aside to let MaryLou get out of the van. We stood staring at the crippled car for a few minutes. What do we do now? MaryLou asked.

We have to push it.

Moving the van was easier said than done, even after we remembered to release the emergency brake. The dark, lonely spot on Seven Hills Road sounded like the birthing room in a maternity ward, what with all the grunting, groaning and gasping as we labored to push the van across the road to the wide turnout where my Golf was parked. I was shaky and tired. My neck and shoulder muscles ached. Not only was the van heavy and cumbersome but a light rain turned everything slick, including the road.

Can’t get a good grip, MaryLou said, stepping back from the van. It’s too slippery.

Reminds me of how I lost my job, I said.

What do you mean?

We were both out of breath, although the van had only budged a few inches. We agreed to take a quick break while I related the story about how, three months ago, I got fired from ARF, the Animal Rescue Foundation.

Soon as I showed up to work I told her, my boss started barking instructions at me. My boss, Mr. HDW, was not a nice man. The public thought he was a kind, charitable, animal-loving guy. Behind the scenes, Mr. Harold D. Williams was a mean-spirited bully. Everyone working at ARF feared and hated him and the dogs did too. The aggressive dogs growled, others whimpered and cowered when he took one of his infrequent walks through the kennel area.

My assignment that day was to bathe Finn McCool, an Irish wolfhound big as a Shetland pony. Unfortunately, Mr. HDW forgot to share a small detail with me. The giant dog was normally a sweetheart but he hated water.

MaryLou's lips formed an O and I could tell by the sparkle in her eyes, she was anticipating the story's punch line.

The moment I turned the sprayer on him, Finn broke loose. He ran amok, slipping and sliding, flinging water everywhere. The kennel erupted in a frenzy of barking dogs. I chased after Finn, while Mr. HDW stood at the door, shrieking 'Catch him, catch him'. I remembered how HDW’s face flushed with anger when I told him he was scaring poor Finn even more. Catch the dog, he ordered. Then I want to see you in my office.

So? MaryLou said, nudging me from my thoughts.

So, it took the rest of the morning for me to coax the scared dog into his kennel. When I finally walked through HDW's office door, disheveled and exhausted, he was at his desk, leaning back in the chair, hands clasped on his chest, as if in prayer. And then, in a really sarcastic voice, he asked me to give him one good explanation for what happened out there.

Creep. What did you tell him, MaryLou asked.

I told him I’d lost my McCool. I looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the story. He fired me on the spot.

That’s so unfair, MaryLou said. He shouldn’t have blamed you like that.

Unfair. I shrugged. Story of my life.

Oh, Ruby. It doesn’t have to be.

What she said startled me. What did she mean? Personally, I hadn’t observed anything fair in my life and I’d been around almost half a century. It wasn't fair that one flippant remark had started my downward spiral, from jobless to homeless to hopeless. It wasn't fair that everyone I'd trusted and loved had let me down. It wasn't fair my luck was so bad. Once, I thought having my birthday on January 1 made me special, I thought it was a lucky sign that I would turn fifty on January 1, 2000, the same day the calendar would flip into a new century. Lately, I’d starting hearing some people call that date Y2K. They predicted all kinds of disasters. No need to commit suicide. Just wait 'til the end of the world. Happy birthday.

Ruby, your life could be perfect if you'd let it. There was such conviction in her voice. I wondered if MaryLou might know something I didn’t. I searched her face for answers but I couldn’t decipher anything from the wide smile she offered me.

The faint sound of a car in the distance reminded us of the urgency of our task. We had to get the van out of the road. With renewed energy, we leaned against the van and shoved. It didn’t move.

This isn’t working. I stood up and rubbed the back of my neck. Pain was like a boa constrictor, wrapping around me and squeezing hard.

MaryLou shook her head. She gasped a response. We. Can. Do it. Together. Now.

Once again, we pushed the van, grunting with effort. Miraculously, the van moved. It glided slowly across the blacktop and onto the dirt, stopping not far from where we’d been aiming. MaryLou and I grabbed each other. We jumped up and down. We danced a joyful jig. In that moment, I felt a powerful connection between MaryLou and me. The night’s events had bonded us.

We’d forgotten the approaching car. Just then, it whooshed past, spraying us with dirty water from the road. I looked down at my wet, mud-splattered jacket and jeans and then at MaryLou’s black pants, mud-brown from the knees to the hem.

A muddy mess, MaryLou said, plucking at the wet cloth of her pant leg where it clung to her skin.

I twirled and posed like a clumsy fashion model. Every well-dressed woman wants clothes designed by Mud-damn Mess.

MaryLou laughed first and I couldn’t resist her happiness. I broke into laughter that wouldn’t stop. The more I laughed, the harder MaryLou laughed. And that made me laugh more. My eyes watered, my nose ran, I gasped for breath and I couldn’t stop. I don’t know how many times we managed to quiet ourselves, only to succumb to another round of hysterical laughter. Finally, after much deep breathing, wiping of eyes, and pressing together of lips to hold back stray giggles, we calmed down enough to inspect the damages, using a flashlight I got from the Golf’s glove compartment. MaryLou’s van hunched to one side, a wounded beast. I pointed the flashlight back down the road, measuring the distance we’d pushed the van. Bits of glass sparkled in the circle of light. I still didn’t see any rocks, even alongside the road.

I dread telling Devin. He already thinks I’m the worst driver, MaryLou said, This is my second accident in a week.

You can probably get it fixed, I said.

MaryLou blinked, thinking about what I’d said. After a moment she waved her hand in the air. No, she said. I didn’t really like driving it that much anyway.

Mentally, I raised eyebrows. For me, a broken down automobile had always been a calamity that required scraping up enough money to patch the car, and then hoping it would run for another few thousand miles.

MaryLou interrupted my thoughts. Can you take me home?

I took a deep breath. I don’t know. Gas tank’s almost empty. Not to mention that I didn’t have the money to fill it. I got depressed again, thinking of everything I needed and didn’t have.

MaryLou leaned towards me and gently touched my arm. As thanks for rescuing me, I’d love to buy you a tank of gas. There’s a gas station just a couple miles from here.

I shook my head. I couldn’t.

Please. Her hand pressed a little harder on my arm. I insist. It’s the least I can do.

Okay. Thank you. I was too embarrassed to look her in the eye.

We collected MaryLou’s purse and several packages from the van, crowded everything into the Golf, and took off. The empty tank warning light glowed red as we entered the small town, which was nothing more than a few scattered houses and a convenience store with a couple of gas pumps out front. I slowed the car, turned into the brightly lit parking lot and parked by one of the pumps.

I’ll go pay, MaryLou said. She got out of the car, yoo-hooing the attendant. I watched the two of them in the rearview mirror as they stood together, talking, while the man unscrewed the gas cap, unlocked the hose, inserted it in the tank and clicked the nozzle in place. In Oregon, it’s illegal to pump your own gas. Over the years, a few people have tried to change the law. Personally, I hope Oregonians never get dumb enough to vote for getting out in the weather, inhaling gas fumes, dirtying their hands and then trudging to the cashier’s booth to stand in line in order to pay the same high price as before. I thought about how cool it was to live where self-serve was against the law.

Right away, the irony grabbed me by the gut and twisted hard. My stomach felt sick and my hands starting to shake. I’d been close to never filling a gas tank again, either self-serve or full-serve. I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel to steady them and deep-breathed until I didn’t feel like throwing up.

Mary Lou got back in the car. I don’t live too far from here. She gestured vaguely. Just a couple of miles back the way we came.

I’ve since figured out that the phrases not too far and just a couple of miles mean nothing in rural-speak. Country roads are narrow and often curvy. Every mile is filled with hazards. By day, you might round a bend only to find your way blocked by a tractor bumping along at 10 mph. By night, legions of deer, skunk and possum wait at the side of the road to fling themselves in front of oncoming cars.

After many assurances that her house was just a little further, we pulled into MaryLou’s driveway. Gigantic rhododendron bushes lined the asphalt driveway as it wound up the hill. At the top, a weedy, overgrown lawn surrounded a rambling faux-Tuscan villa with a prominent four-car garage. The home’s Mediterranean-style stucco and tile seemed out of place in the soggy winter landscape.

I pulled the car close to the path leading to the front door and turned the engine off, to conserve gas. Well, I said, It’s been quite a night. My neck gave a sharp twinge and I reached to massage it.

Why don’t you come in, let me give you a cup of coffee or something. She lifted her left arm, flicked on the car's inside light and tugged at her sleeve, displaying a dainty watch with a gold band and tiny diamond chips circling the watch face. Oh my goodness. It’s almost 10:30. You can’t go driving around at this time of night. You’ll stay here tonight.

I couldn’t possibly, I protested. I could hear my Aunt Elaine in my voice, being polite even if it meant turning down a warm bed when I had nowhere else to sleep except my car.

Ruby, don’t be silly. It’s no problem. No problem at all. Please. MaryLou’s dark brown eyes looked straight into mine. She broke the gaze first, turning to open the car door and step out.

Mesmerized, I got out of the Golf and followed her.

Chapter Two

The house was dark. MaryLou ushered me through the front entry, across the living room and down a long carpeted hallway to the guest bedroom, flicking on every light switch she passed until the house was bright as a day in July. While MaryLou hustled off to find me pajamas and towels, I stood in the doorway and surveyed the small guest bedroom.

The room was crowded with an old-fashioned mahogany bedroom set. The bed had a massive headboard and was flanked on either side by large, doily-covered side tables. The white chenille bedspread, the fussy, dark furniture and the doilies made me think of Aunt Elaine’s bedroom. I remembered how I'd climb into the big bed for comfort when I had bad dreams.

I pulled off my muddy jeans and sweater, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I don’t remember lying down but when I awakened, I was sprawled across the bed, covered by a blanket MaryLou must have spread over me. In the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, I could see pajamas, towels and my laundered clothes neatly piled on the bureau where she’d